Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“I know you.”
“Oh.” I open and close my mouth for a second, taken aback. “Well, I still thank you. But if you —”
“You’re the reason he’s this close to losing it.”
My heart drops. “What?”
“And the reason I’m allowing this to happen. Maybe you can talk some sense into him,” he adds before turning back to Tempest. “Or I would’ve told your asshole brother where to stick it.” Shifting on his feet and taking a deep breath, he says, “Now, I want you both to stay close to me, all right? This isn’t a place for either of you. And no, I don’t wanna hear any bullshit right now about what you can or can’t do. This isn’t about feminism or some shit. This is about safety and common fucking sense.” He directs this comment to Tempest, who was in the process of saying something, probably arguing. “You both are under my protection tonight, and if I have to chase either one of you down, I’m not going to be happy.”
“Aren’t you always not happy, though?” Tempest quirks up her brows. “Angry Thorn?”
Ledger stares at her for a moment, blank face but taut features. “Yeah. Which means you don’t want to make me even more not happy, all right, Firefly? Come on, let’s go.”
If I wasn’t extremely anxious after Ledger’s comment about Reign ‘losing it,’ I probably would’ve appreciated more that Tempest, for all her bluster, blushed really, really hard at ‘Firefly.’ And that Ledger’s eyes glinted the most when she did. Not to mention, I definitely would’ve wondered about his anger issues and why people call him ‘The Angry Thorn,’ his soccer nickname.
But I have my own problems right now, and ignoring it all, I follow Ledger inside the building.
Which I realize is more or less the size of a high school gym.
Actually, it may have been a school gym once upon a time, with wooden bleachers surrounding the basketball-sized court. But now everything is turned into concrete, from the floors to the steps. And there are no hoops or the line thingies drawn on the floor that tell players where to throw the ball from.
There is a ring though.
Like a boxing ring.
And tons and tons of glaring lights focused on that ring.
So many lights that the rest of the space is in darkness.
And so that is where I decide to focus, on that ring, on what’s happening inside it, under those spotlights.
There are two people, two men specifically.
They’re both bare-chested and tall and towering. One of them has a broad body with thick muscles while the other one has a body that’s more streamlined and sleek, built for speed.
That doesn’t mean though that this sleeker guy doesn’t have muscles or definition.
Oh, he’s got definition.
His muscles are packed and more sharply carved. More finely honed.
Tight and ropey.
You can see the clear shape of them, the density.
You could study that body in an anatomy class. Draw diagrams based on it. Build science models and structures.
I watch them circle each other, their hands covered in a white gauze kind of a thing and put up in kind of like in a fighting stance. A second later though, there’s no kind of about it because with those raised fists, they begin to fight.
And when that first fist flies and hits the jaw of the sleeker guy, I gasp.
As if waking up from a fog.
I know that jaw.
It’s angular and square and perpetually covered in stubble. It’s his jaw.
It’s him. It’s his streamlined body.
The one that I’ve seen several times in the past. At the manor, at the school, on the soccer field.
All smooth and summer-skinned.
So vital and alive.
That same body of his is now getting beaten up.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
That other guy is killing him. He’s so totally killing him and it happened so fast.
Like, that first punch flew and caught him in the jaw; then he rolled out a punch of his own that got the other guy just under his solar plexus. And after that there were a series of punches that the other guy threw that Reign was able to dodge and duck and leap away from, while getting a few punches of his own in. The bell rang, signaling the end of the round. And then rang again to signal the start of another one.
But now, now there’s no leaping or ducking or whatever the fuck all these defensive moves are called.
Now there’s only beating.
There’s sweat and blood flying in the air, and bones and muscles smacking against each other. And then the bigger guy flips Reign and snakes his arms — both arms — around his neck and presses and presses.
Holy shit.
He’s trying to choke Reign.
That’s when I start running.
I start hearing noises, shouts and screams and cheers and jeers around me.
As if this is a show.
What is wrong with people?